


We might fall

by notvega



Series: Peace in our time [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 15:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16098893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notvega/pseuds/notvega
Summary: And we did.A look at Remus Lupin, his relationship with the Order as suspicions run high, and his ill-fated infatuation with Dorcas Meadowes.





	We might fall

**Author's Note:**

> Edited to remove typos and that fabulous sentence which used the same adverb twice.

Remus isn’t quite sure what he’s doing there as he shuffles awkwardly into the sparsely furnished living room of their poor excuse for a unit headquarters. Dorcas usually manages nights by herself, alternating with Emmeline and occasionally Moody when both women have business to attend to. Her note includes nothing by way of explanations. He’s not unhappy per se, to be spending the night here. His flat, run down and drab, is hardly something to miss, and here, his inability to settle down to sleep will at least fulfill a purpose. 

“The headmaster felt doing the night shift solo was putting Emm and me on edge,” Dorcas states matter-of-factly as she appears in the doorframe, holding a tray. Her silent movements haven't quite ceased to terrify him, but he's gotten used enough to them to not be whirling around with his wand out. He has a sneaking suspicion that sooner or later, that talent for appearing out of nowhere, combined with a ruthlessness only matched by Moody, will lead her down the path of an assassin. She'll probably be good at it, too.

“Seems fair,” he responds with a nod that he hopes she reads as a greeting and shrugs off the thought.

She places the tray on the table and sits with her legs crossed demurely. The tray holds a teapot, cups on saucers, a little jug of milk and a sugar box. All from the same set, which looks just nice enough he’s willing to bet it didn’t come with the house. 

“Yours?” he asks, nodding at the cups as she pours. 

“My aunt’s. She gave it to me on graduation.” 

They’re silent for a while after that, her on the settee, him in a threadbare armchair. She is reading scrolls, handwritten ones, which he supposes are reports. He’s brought a book, but he can’t seem to focus on reading it, so he spends the time staring at the wall, thinking about happier times. School, mostly, some family times that were unaffected by his condition. Somehow, he manages to sink so deeply into nostalgia it’s almost like she’s waking him when she speaks.

He shakes his head to rid it of the drowsiness and asks her to repeat herself.

“I’m getting some stew from my apartment. Would you like a bowl?”

Strangely enough, he’s never imagined Dorcas would live in an apartment, or cook. She always seems to be at work, or out at social functions, duly getting her picture taken for the Prophet, or lately, on Order missions across the continent. He nods anyway.

When she returns, there’s two bowls of stew with spoons, which she quickly sets down on the table because they’re clearly too hot to hold. The corners of her lips are quirked up into a little smile.

"Good news?"

“Nothing terribly important," she replies, a ghost of the smile still in her eyes, "Fabian sent me some chocolates from Brussels.”

“That’s sweet.”

He’s heard about that, her arrangement with the older Prewett brother. Sirius is mates with Gideon, the younger one, and they still chat sometimes. Apparently, Fabian and Dorcas romance each other more than even James and Lily do, all flowers and chocolates and muggle dances in dresses and tuxedos. All in secret from wizarding society, of course, because one of Dorcas’ main assets is that she’s still so well liked in respectable pureblood circles, and he suspects, an attractive match for a good amount of unmarried Death Eaters to boot. Fabian Prewett, from what little Remus knows of him, doesn’t mind her flirtations with the younger Lestrange and Evan Rosier, which makes sense in an odd way, because that’s just business, isn't it? What makes less sense to Remus is that neither of them seems to mind the actual romances of the other either, from Fabian’s business-like arrangement with Marlene to Dorcas’ wandering Paris holding hands with Ian Fawcett. Remus thinks he would probably mind, in Fabian’s place, but he doesn’t know an awful lot about being in Fabian’s place at all, so maybe he should mind his own business. 

“And what about you, Lupin? Sending anyone chocolates?” Her dark eyes are twinkling as she asks, with something like genuine curiosity.

He shakes his head, bites his lip. He’s not bloody likely to, is he, not in his situation, not now. What girl in her right mind would go for a bloke with lycanthropy, who can’t hold down a job and might get sent on a suicide mission the next week? One he’d have to lie to is who, and he doesn’t want to do that. It’s not in his nature, and it’s not like women are throwing themselves at him anyway, even when they don’t know all of the above, when they just see a shy guy in old, fraying sweaters, with his first grey hairs at the ripe old age of twenty. 

“You should, you know,” she says quietly. He’d brush it off, but her tired face looks so sweet and sincere for once that he can’t bring himself to do it. She continues, a little wistful but with her usual pragmatism. “I won’t pretend you’re likely to find love for life in the next few months or anything silly like that. But unless you're more different from me than I think you are, romance helps. Even if it’s doomed. Because you know there’s something out there that’s not part of this war. There’s good and inspiring people to discover, futures to build on the other side. Eventually. I think I’d go nuts if I didn’t get the reminder once in a while.” She laughs a little, more self conscious than he thinks he’s ever seen her, and he wants to reach out to brush the hair from her face, but he doesn’t.

Remus doesn’t want to answer her but somehow her eyes hypnotise him into it as he finds he can’t really look away. “Didn’t say it’s because I’m opposed,” he mumbles and feels a little humiliated at that. He doubts she can relate. She’s Dorcas Meadowes and he can name enough boys from Gryffindor alone who fancied her over the years, and that’s when she was a Slytherin Prefect.

“Do you do anything about it?” she prods further, gentle but somehow still making him feel like he has to defend himself.

“Why would I? Doesn’t exactly take a long time to figure out I’m not a great match these days.” He grits his teeth, looks away, but the bitterness keeps coming. “I’d question the judgement of any bird who’d look past all that.” He motions awkwardly toward himself, hoping his second-hand clothes, his scarring, his premature aging will somehow do the explaining that he really doesn’t want to delve into. 

“Don’t be daft,” Dorcas responds, more sharply now. She rises from the settee and walks to the window before continuing. “Give girls a little more credit. You seem like a decent enough bloke who’s not generally bad to spend time with. You’ve read a book that wasn’t assigned reading.” Running a hand through her sleek bob of black hair, she sounds a little exasperated, like she's had this conversation before. “Hell, if nothing else, you’re tall with nice eyes. Go to a bar, find yourself a shag to build some confidence.” 

“That what you do?” he fires back, ignoring the ‘nice eyes’ remark because dwelling on it will do him no good. No good at all.

“Sometimes,” she answers, checking her reflection in the window. Her voice is entirely too calm given his snap. “Sometimes I look for other things. It all depends on what you want. But this isn’t the kind of world where you can just wait for happiness to fall into your lap. You of all people should know that.”

“Maybe sometimes, we have to accept impossibilities, too,” he counters and it sounds altogether too defeated to his own ears.

Finally, she turns away from the window and walks over to him in quick steps that seem to echo in the room’s silence. He’s a little startled when, standing next to him, she reaches out and places her hand lightly on his shoulder. 

“I really think you’re wrong about that,” she says. For a moment, he's disoriented, what with the warmth of her hand through the faded wool of his sweater and the sincerity in her brown eyes as she remains there for just another second, then smiles a little sadly and returns to the settee.

He reheats the stew and they talk of happier things, music and the book he’s brought. She’s read the author’s previous work, some of it anyway, and her observations are clever, but he finds himself distracted more often than not by the movement of her hands as she speaks, a little aware still of where she touched his shoulder.

Remus feels a little pathetic then, to be so affected by a little gesture that’s nothing more than comfort, but he’s been touch-starved ever since James and Lily went into hiding and Sirius and Peter started avoiding him. It’s not like they’re being subtle about it either; even Moody has picked up on it. He can’t even think of anyone else that would be reasonable to hug, not now his parents have passed away in any case. Perhaps more pathetically, he finds himself wishing she would do it again.

By the end of the night, he’s pretty sure he is one of those Gryffindor boys who fancy Dorcas Meadowes.

***

They’re put on the nightshift together quite a bit after that night. Remus suspects that Moody has cottoned to the fact that sending him on other missions would risk blowing his cover among the werewolves, and the old auror is nothing if not efficient in his resource allocation.He enjoys it even as things remain utterly unspectacular. They meet, have dinner. She usually is the one who cooks, traditional sorts of recipes. Remus suspects she is worried about his eating habits, and he can’t entirely tell her she’s wrong without lying. She asks about his life, recent books he’s read or the jobs that he shuffles in and out of. He keeps conversation about things other than their personal lives as much as possible. Books, muggle movies, the war, sometimes. After dinner, they do a sweep of the house, and sit together waiting for an alarm that never comes. He reads, she goes over documents. He isn’t sure if they’re for work or the Order and he doesn’t ask. No need to push things after all. 

It’s unlike other crushes he’s had at Hogwarts. There’s less wishful thinking and fantasising, for one. He is never under the illusion that anything will come of it, can hardly even imagine it. Flexible as that arrangement is, she is with Fabian and on the rare occasions he sees them together, it’s painfully clear how happy they are with their arrangement. More than that, he is pretty sure he couldn’t be.

He’s pretty sure she has no idea about his infatuation. It seems, sometimes, like she sees him as a project, someone to take care of. Her advice seems consistent enough with what she said that first night about finding good experiences to hold onto as you fight the war. Especially as he spends more time with the werewolves, he realises she’s right about that. So when he realises, wracked by sobs waking up on a forest floor after a particularly bad full moon, that his memories of Hogwarts are becoming blurry, he decides to follow some of that advice.

***

The nightclub is too loud by far and he finds himself reminded of raucous celebrations of victorious Quidditch matches. Already beginning to regret his choice to do this instead of going to a book club or something similar, he realises he’s itching for a cigarette. But there’s another reason he’s there, not necessarily entirely healthy, but mesmerising regardless. 

“Drink, sugar?” the bartender asks with a cheeky smirk. Although lacking the Scottish accent, she reminds him of Marlene with her blond curls and low-cut shirt. Not that Marlene smirks like that much anymore. 

He orders blindly, reading an arbitrary line from the menu. The drink he receives, with a suggestive wink, is a bright neon blue that in any other context he would suspect is poison. He stays at the bar, careful not to touch the sticky surface of it as he leans on a barstool and scans the room. The light is dimmed and pulses in tune with the music. Colours flood through the room at irregular intervals, casting the dancers in stark shadows that make it all seem a little surreal. Someone shuffles past him and he almost spills his drink. It’s a man almost his own height and maybe a few years older, now also ordering a drink from the pretty bartender.

“You local?” the man slurs a little. He seems friendly enough at first glance, tipsy and a little disoriented, but nice.

Remus shakes his head, eyes still scanning the dancefloor. “Just visiting,” he responds, almost shouting to be understood over the music. “You?”

“Born’n’bred,” the man says. “So, you fancy one o’ the birds ‘ere?”

“Don’t know yet.” He’s about to say more, maybe find a polite way to exit the conversation, when he catches sight of a familiar head of glossy black hair, cut bluntly to the chin. Dorcas is dancing closely with another girl, arms lifted over her head as she moves like a sleepwalker guided by the music. The girl with her is a little taller, with wild auburn curls that almost reach her waist, clad in denim dungarees and a white shirt. She couldn’t be more different to Dorcas, who in a slinky dark dress cuts (deliberately, he thinks) the kind of figure men in nightclubs don’t really look away from. 

“That one, eh?” asks his nameless companion with a good-natured laugh. “Doesn't seem too interested in us fellows, does she?”

Remus covers his mixed feelings by taking rather a large gulp of his drink, taste barely registering beyond the burn of the alcohol in his throat. The man next to him shrugs and leaves for the dance floor, briefly brushing past Dorcas and her dancing partner before disappearing in the crowd. He isn’t really sure what to do, doesn’t feel like joining the dance floor but also doesn’t want her to see him staring at her like some pathetic stalker although he has a sneaking suspicion that’s exactly what he is.

The choice is taken away from him when she and the other girl make their way from the dancefloor toward the bar, effortlessly navigating the little groups of men that leer at them and miraculously managing not to get caught up in any of them. Dorcas sees him when she’s almost at the bar and her face breaks into the kind of easy smile he doesn’t think he’s seen on her since Hogwarts. The alcohol probably has something to do with it. He can literally smell the whiskey on her as she pulls him into a close - very close - hug and only steps back far enough to just not be touching him to introduce her companion - Felicia, studying chemistry at the university. Felicia smiles at him and kisses Dorcas full on the lips as she takes her leave - she has classwork of some sort due the next day and will have to get up early to finish it. She also kisses Remus, on the cheek, and leaves a trace of her bright red lipstick. He thinks they’re both rather drunk and downs the rest of his mystery drink, hoping this will all make more sense once he is rid of his sobriety.

It doesn’t.

Dorcas says something along the lines of how it’s good he’s finally trying out her advice, and isn’t the music brilliant. It’s the most carefree he’s ever seen her in a conversation and he doesn’t resist when she takes both his hands in hers and pulls him to the dancefloor. The song is slow and a little quieter than before, not a love song exactly, but couples form anyway, swaying together. Her hands are clasped behind his neck and his rest on her waist as they move in careful little steps so as to not collide with the other dancers. She’s looking up at him with that carefree smile, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Right hand remaining at the nape of his neck, teasing at his hair, her left moves to touch his face and he feels his heartbeat speeding up even more than it already has. She gently rubs at the spot where Felicia kissed him, removing the lipstick.

Despite what some people may say, he’s not a complete idiot and he has danced with girls before. He knows it’s an invitation, or as near as he’s going to get. With a slightly bitter taste to it, he hears Sirius’ impatient voice in his head, telling him to stop dithering and go for it already. One of his hands moves up to her hair and he’s momentarily glad she’s wearing sky-high heels because it means he won’t have to lean down as comically as he otherwise might. 

When he does kiss her, it’s a surprisingly gentle affair. His lips brush over hers, press a little kiss to the corner of her mouth. She seems content enough, snuggling a little closer to him with one hand on his shoulder, the other playing with his hair. 

They leave not too long after that, side-along apparating to her place. In the less forgiving light of her kitchen, he can see the bruised shadows under her eyes and the make-up tricks she’s conjured up to distract from them. 

Although long-sleeved and sporting a very respectable neckline, her dress is cut strikingly from some devilish green velvet, clinging to her curves, and Remus would be lying if he said he wasn’t thinking about some very indecent things, especially when she kisses him again, less gently now, and he finds his hands running over her back and pulling her in close until he finally lifts her and sets her down on the immaculate kitchen counter for better access to her jawline and neck, kissing and sucking on them in a sort of blind desperation as she pulls him in closer and lets out little gasps when he gets to particular spots. She returns the favour, nipping at his neck and around his collarbone, and he thinks he’s going a little insane. When her hands fiddle with the hem of his sweater and nimble fingers run over the bare skin of his back, he can’t help but give a sort of strangled moan. Dorcas takes him to the bedroom then, and they slow things down a little. 

She knows what she’s doing, is the kind of lover Sirius always describes as practically psychic because they knew just a moment before you did what would drive you absolutely spare. Remus is hardly a virgin, but he won’t pretend he can match her experience, working largely from instinct and the nudges she gives. He’s not sure how he holds up by comparison to others, although she seems satisfied enough in her moment and when she curls up with her head in the crook of his shoulder, one leg slung halfway across him in what strikes Remus as an oddly possessive move given their situation. Not that he’s complaining. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” she says, her voice quiet and a little hoarse, “did you ever finish that new work of Lirella’s?”

He remembers somewhere in his hazy brain that that’s the book they talked about on their first night shift together and nods, absentmindedly running a finger over her side. 

“Yeah. You might give it a try. I thought it was one of his better ones in the end.” His own voice sounds a little faint, like he’s still trying to work through a shock. Maybe he is. 

“I will.” She’s quiet after that, drawing little circles on his scarred chest with her thumb. It’s reassuring and warm and altogether rather nice to lay like this, cuddled up with another person and not having to care about the outside world for a moment. He asked her, earlier, to turn off the lights, mostly out of fear, but now he wishes he could see her face better than he can in the faint light of a street lantern just behind the blinds.

Her room is bare, with a king size bed, antique wardrobe, mirror, and a bedside table. The whole apartment, now that he thinks about it, is disturbingly free of clutter, and yet it doesn’t look unlived in. Maybe Dorcas is just not a cluttering type of person. He can’t really imagine her abiding any kind of mess anyway.

They fall asleep soon after that.

***

The next morning, Remus wakes up alone. He dresses in last night's clothes, pleased to find they reek only a little of alcohol, and finds her in the kitchen perusing the Prophet and nibbling on a piece of toast. She makes him a cup of far too fancy Italian coffee and they chat a little, pleasant and casual. He knows the previous night will be a one-off and somehow that feels worse than before. Still, he supposes he has no one but himself to blame.

***

It stings for quite a while, knowing exactly what he doesn't - can't - have. He grits his teeth and tries to ignore it. They still do guard shifts together in that easy routine, and he gets over the initial bitter sting of not really getting to cross that invisible line again. Dorcas doesn’t seem to be under the impression anything is particularly different, still asking about his life and gently pushing him to do more, socially and in general. She’s started to take an interest in the situation with Sirius and the others, and although she can’t do much about it, he appreciates the support, flimsy and pragmatic as it probably is. A hug once in a while feels good no matter the context.

He cleans out his place enough to invite people over and joins a book club. While he doesn’t date much exactly, he makes some friends. His job, a secretary type thing for a building company, works out well enough. Mind-numbingly boring as it is, it pays his bills and he can occasionally splurge on a soft sweater and if sometimes he spends on a postcard he thinks might make Dorcas smile on their nightshift, well, no one else has to know just how badly he’s got it for her. 

***

Marlene dies last of the McKinnons and the funeral is organised by some heir from over in the states as per the utterly outdated instructions of her mother. All the respectable families are invited, and Sirius tells them all ahead of time he can’t wait to see her murderers cry crocodile tears over the casket. Momentarily, Marlene’s death brings them closer together because Remus knows the way Sirius grieves, angry and dark and with the sort of furious helplessness of someone who hasn’t quite learnt how to accept impossibilities.

The day of the funeral arrives and Remus observes from the far back as relations near and far, family friends, and the rest of the cream of wizarding society file into the pews. Sirius stands next to James and Lily, further ahead in the chapel. It’s the first time the two of them are out and about. Little Harry is with a babysitter somewhere, but Lily looks not just sad, but strained as well.

Dorcas is further ahead still, next to Emma Fawcett. After the ceremony, she wanders over to Rosalind Wilkes and Narcissa Black (Malfoy now, which still sounds odd to Remus’ ears) and for a moment, it seems like they’re all back in school. Refined and perfectly behaved, she fits in well with them, more naturally than she ever would with any of the Order. More naturally than she ever did with Marlene, who was all about fire and living life to its fullest. Although Dorcas seems to have taken a page or two out of Marlene’s book on the last point. Secretly, anyway. Remus wonders idly if that really might have been Marlene’s doing, consciously or otherwise. 

Sirius grips his shoulder, swaying slightly. He’s drunk off his arse, slurring something about how Remus should stop looking at his cousin already, she’s plenty married and a frigid bore to boot, and then he’s dragged out of the church with him and James and Pete and Gideon is with them; they disapparate together and it’s a miracle no one splints themselves before arriving at a dingy pub where Sirius orders more drinks. By the looks of it, they’ll wind up in a bar fight sooner or later, but thankfully, Gideon is alert enough to prevent that, send James home to Lily and Pete to Marion. The man’s a trained up cursebreaker, but it still takes him almost an hour to get Sirius to come home with him, vomit, and sleep. They get him onto a pull-out in the brothers' shared living room and Gideon reassures Remus, quietly, that he’ll make sure Sirius doesn’t get up to anything dangerous. On his way out, Remus runs into Fabian and Dorcas, still in their funeral robes, talking quietly in the stairway of the building. They give him a little nod, but don’t attempt to engage him in further conversation, and he’s glad about that. Out of them all, he’s the one who had the least to do with Marlene, and he can’t help any of them in their grief.

***

Things get nastier after Marlene’s death. Moody and Dorcas decide, and Remus isn’t sure how involved the Headmaster is in this one, to start picking off Death Eaters one by one. Their tactics are brutal, going after wives and parents, threatening whatever they have to in order to get them into Azkaban. Remus isn’t entirely sure that Sirius doesn’t use the new license to make good on some of those threats, and he knows for a fact that a suspicious number of those involved in the killing of the McKinnons wind up dead rather than behind bars. It’s kill or be killed at this stage, and the tide turned against the Order a long time ago.

They start dropping fast and even going into hiding eventually isn’t enough to save the Prewett brothers. They go out in a blaze of glory, taking out four Death Eaters, but at the end they’re just as dead as anyone else. There’s no public funeral for them, it’s too dangerous by far, but they hold a little private ceremony, where Moody and Dumbledore say a few words. It’s nowhere near enough. Sirius ignores Remus this time, refusing to even look at him. He hears the message, loud and clear, and he gets the impression James has started to agree with it. Somehow it’s made worse by the fact that he sees Sirius and Dorcas disapparate together after the ceremony, their faces desperate and broken and seething with anger.

***

They don’t hold meetings anymore. Everyone knows there’s a traitor among their number, and the risk would be far too great. Hiding is the call of the hour, and although they hate it, they still follow Moody’s orders. James tells him, the last time they meet, that Sirius and Dorcas have found a place in France together to use as a base of operations. From the last time he saw the two of them, he can imagine very well what kind of thing James is talking about. It makes sense, and looking back on it, he isn’t so sure whether it was only Sirius picking off the McKinnons’ murderers.

Peter meets with him, secretly, confirms his suspicion that Sirius and James are by this point pretty confident he is the traitor among their number, and are holding their own private meetings to plan things. No matter how much he expected this, it still hurts to hear it confirmed. Somehow it’s even worse to hear Peter confess to him, in scared whispers as though he’s worried they’re being overheard, that he is terrified the traitor might actually be Sirius. Not that he hasn’t considered it, he has. But it adds a certain finality to the fraying of their foursome and that makes his perspective for after the war a lot less hopeful. 

Remus stays in touch with Peter and even Lily sends the occasional letter, but he becomes more and more isolated from the wizarding world, and at a certain point, he stops making the effort. One of his friends from book club hooks him up with a job up north and he moves without much of a second thought, or really feeling obligated to update anyone on his address (although he does tell Moody, because he can’t quite give up hope that they will ask him to help again), which is why he’s reasonably surprised when Dorcas winds up on his doorstep, wrapped in a too-big black cloak and drenched hair sticking to her face. 

Of course, he lets her in. Her face is paler and narrower than when he last saw her and her eyes, wide and dark, seem almost too big for the delicate features around them. He hands her a towel and boils some water to make tea, pointing her toward the tiny sitting room he’s furnished with a worn-out sofa and table. His books still sit in the moving boxes by the wall.

When he returns from the kitchen with the tea, made from proper tea leaves in one of the luxuries a stable job affords him, she’s curled up on the couch, boots discarded and knees hugged to her chest. It’s disconcerting to see her like this, but he supposes it’s not surprising really. She’s been in the thick of it for months and it’s not like she has Moody’s years of experience to carry her through it. Not that Moody necessarily seems to be the type to cope healthily. He sits down next to her, leaving plenty of distance on the couch between them. 

“Tea?” he asks carefully, holding out a cup. 

She nods, accepts the cup. Drinks. 

“Moody give you my address?”

“What?” She seems genuinely surprised at the thought. “No, I just tracked down your friends. They were helpful.” His face must look worried because she immediately raises her hands defensively. “I asked them questions, I didn’t do anything to them. Good guys, remember?” 

Remus raises an eyebrow. “So, you found me. What do you want?” It sounds hostile, he knows that, but he can’t help it. She’s not who he’s angry with, not really, but she’s one of them now and he can’t really help being unspeakably bitter at that. 

“You’ll know there’s a traitor. It’s why we scattered and reassembled without you.” She states it with a blunt honesty that somehow makes it all worse. Maybe, some selfish part of him wishes she felt at least a little guilty. “Didn’t work. Whoever it is didn’t pick up on the fact that if they were trying to frame you, they needed to stop supplying the Death Eaters, at least for a while, after you were out of the picture.”

“Sounds a bit dense for someone who’s been sabotaging us for that long, doesn’t it?” 

Dorcas shrugs. Her eyes are boring into his wall, refusing to meet his. “Maybe. Could also be a long con to undermine all the others in the group, one by one. Which is why I’m here.”

“Afraid I don’t follow.”

 

“If that is the case, the idea is to isolate supposed traitors, then pick them off. It’s not a bad plan, my old unit ran something similar back in the day.” 

“Might be where they got the idea,” Remus comments wryly, wincing as he takes a sip of his tea. Too strong. 

 

“Possible. In any case. I found your new life in two days. Might take someone worse at the craft a week, but it doesn’t matter. Just - make sure you’re harder to find. Move around. I can give you money if that’s a problem.”

He feels the familiar wince at her offer of money. “Won’t you need it to go on the run yourself?”

“Not for long,” she answers with a grotesque smile and for the first time since entering his home, meets his eyes head-on. “I’ve made my way up his priority list, it seems. Flattering, really.”

He doesn’t think that would be possible, but it actually knocks the air out of his lungs. For the Dark Lord to have publically named Dorcas as a target is as close to a death sentence as it really gets. It’s rare, too, reserved for blood traitors and defectors. He’s surprised, earnestly, that Dorcas made the cut, but then he doesn’t know much about what she’s been up to recently. 

“So you’re on the run too?”

Leaning back on the couch, she runs a hand through her hair. Beneath the water and wind-swept mess, it’s still immaculately cut into that old neat bob of hers. “Not really. Mostly trying to make the most of the fact I’m quite bona fide on the side of light these days. Settling my affairs.” She sounds almost disturbingly accepting of that fate, chatting about it as lightly as anything else.

“Wow.” He doesn’t have the first idea what to say.

“I know it’s a bit - much. But comforting to me, in a way. Most of my people are gone before me, and I don’t much care for muddling about in a unit with at least one bad egg. No offense.” 

“None taken.” Still stunned, Remus reaches out, awkwardly patting her shoulder. 

Dorcas smiles at him, a real smile now that touches her eyes. She moves her hand to cover his on her shoulder and lace her fingers through his. “It’s good to see you. Really, Remus.”

He doesn’t want to ruin the moment, he really doesn’t, but he can’t help but ask. “Did you believe it? That I was the traitor?”

“I didn’t take a position on it.” She is still looking at him, sincere and entirely too calm. “Not in the habit of asserting certainty where none exists. When Sirius suggested it, I looked at the odds. Didn’t seem conclusive. Reality meant I had to accept you being out to keep working with them. I was willing to make that trade-off, and probably would again.”

Remus wants to be angry at that, indignant and furious, but looking at her, still holding his hand in hers, sitting on his threadbare couch, he can’t do it. She’s here to warn him, in person, alone. She could have sent an owl. 

“Can I come with you?” he asks without thinking, realising a moment later how ridiculous it sounds. 

She shifts slightly to face him and squeezes his hand. “Don’t be silly. It’s only a matter of time before they get me. I’m not going into hiding, and I have a target on my back.”

“I know.” He looks away. 

“Remus,” she says quietly and taps his knee with her free hand, waiting until he meets her eyes before continuing. “I’m grateful. Selfishly, I would say yes. But you have a chance to live. Reconcile with your friends, make new ones, have a family. Don’t throw that away on some romantic quest for a glorious death.”

“Would you, given the chance? Change it?”

“Not since - “ She bites her lip. “I don’t think I was meant to live through this war if Marlene and Fabian and Gideon weren’t. They were all… so much more alive than I. Always.”

He thought she’d say since Fabian died. It makes some sense that she stopped looking for a long-term future when her chance at happiness was taken away. These days, it doesn’t even sting anymore. His question wasn’t due to some fool’s notion of dying by his true love’s side. Maybe, he just prefers not having to actually face a future where he just has to wait to read in the paper that Dorcas Meadowes, twenty-four, sometime contributor to the Evening Prophet, has been found dead in her London domicile.

“You came here to say goodbye, right?”

She smiles a little whimsically. “Maybe. I felt like coming to see you, at least.”

Remus swallows. “I’m glad you did,” he says and it sounds hollow and a lot less glad than he really is that she thought of him. 

“Me too.” She looks at her watch and empties her cup. “I’d love to do something nice and sweet like having one perfect day or something, but I think we both know that’s not a good plan.”

“Yeah.”

They both get up and she reaches for her cloak, wrapping it around herself tightly before looking up at him for a moment. She looks a lot smaller than she should, and too fragile to go out into the cold. But he knows he can’t stop her, so instead he reaches for the small shelf by his door and produces a woolly hat. It’s old and shapeless and he hardly ever wears it because he’s retained an aversion to green clothing, but it’s something and he really wants to give her something of his to keep her a little safer out there.

He hands it to her awkwardly and she laughs, trying it on so enthusiastically it might as well be a proper hat at Madam Malkin’s, checking her reflection in the window. When she turns back to him, it takes a split second for her to take the step toward him and wrap her arms around his waist very tightly. His hands rest lightly on her back, rubbing little circles. He doesn’t want to let go, but of course he does when she steps away and nods at him, pulling the hat over her ears.

“Take good care of yourself, Remus Lupin.”

And she’s gone.

***

Some weeks later, Remus reads about the death of Dorcas Meadowes, beloved friend and coworker, heiress to the Meadowes name and fortune, sometime contributor to the Evening Prophet, and he accepts it. He’s started living on the run again, not staying in one place very long. Moody meets with him, once, and debriefs him. The Order of the Phoenix is as good as dissolved, and they both know, unspoken, that the Auror Office is hardly doing better. Without a miracle, all that’s left is every man for himself. 

***

fin.


End file.
